


But what does it matter if the whole world sinks?

by MightyRoosh



Category: Set the Thames on Fire (2015), The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Drug Addiction, Forced Prostitution, M/M, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, References to Suicide, slight trans/enbyphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-01-31 08:32:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12678243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MightyRoosh/pseuds/MightyRoosh
Summary: This whole thing came into fruition thanks to an amazing theory posed by towan-white on tumblr.The idea is that Vince and Dickie are the same person, but please read their post, as it makes the whole idea very plausible.(Fair warning, this is going to be angsty as hell for the most part.)





	1. Alone

_“But what does it matter if the whole world sinks when you’ve lost your friend?”_

**02:48am**

Blue and pink, blue and pink, blue and pink.

The fluorescent lights rarely dimmed and certainly never went out. Bad for business. Combined with the dripping pipes (and the drugs that made up most of his daily diet), he hardly ever slept.

Well. That was what he blamed for his insomnia, in any case. It made it easier.

Dickie pulled the thin, damp sheets around his shivering body and tried to fight through the withdrawal, yet again. If he could just fight through it this time, he might be able to plan his escape. He might be able to stop digging a deeper hole of debt to his master. He might be able to get out of the deep dark pit that he had fallen into. He might...

_THUMP THUMP THUMP_

Booming knocks on the service door of his den tore Dickie from his dazed thoughts, and he scurried off of the battered mattress to answer. Only one person attacked his door like that, and he didn't like to be kept waiting. Dickie unlatched the door and jumped back as it was jerked open, shrinking away from the large shape that filled the doorway.

"Imp... Impresario..." Dickie stuttered, looking up at the man through his lashes. "Wha... what brings you here at this hour, sir?".

The Impresario glared down at Dickie, before grasping one of his bleach-blond pigtails and dragging him closer. He grinned, showing dirty, cracked teeth.  
His smile never quite met his eyes.  


Releasing his clutch on Dickie's hair, he cupped his chin instead, holding a little too tightly for comfort.

"Just checkin' that my little pet is behavin' himself, aren't I?" The Impresario muttered, his voice tipped with maliciousness that always seemed to linger when he spoke. 

"Heard it through the grapevine, didn't I? That a _certain_ pet of mine weren't on the top of his game for the last day or two. Turnin' clients away. Not providin' the top quality service that is expected of him.".

The Impresario squeezed Dickie's chin harder, and Dickie bit his tongue to avoid squeaking in protest.

"Seems to me that this _pet_..." _squeeze_ "... is gettin' a little too big..." _squeeze_ "... for his sparkly little boots..."

Dickie finally gave in, mewling in pain, and The Impresario pushed him away in disgust. Dickie stumbled against the wall and allowed himself to slide onto the floor, clutching his chin and begging his eyes not to fill with tears. The Impresario loomed over him, eyes filled with rage.

"I don't know what you're tryin' to do, you little slut, but YOU. BELONG. TO ME!"

He spat at Dickie's feet, before squatting down in front of him and leering menacingly.

"Are we tryin' to get clean again, hmmm? Trying to run away? You were nothin' before I found you! Nothin' but a dirty junkie, suckin' cock for a bump! I gave you a home, I gave you a job. I provide you with all the powder and pills that you shove into your ungrateful body! And for what? For you to turn on me and... BETRAY ME?"

The Impresario was yelling now, flecks of spit hitting Dickie in the face as he tried to flinch away from the sounds, from the horrible things that his master was screaming at him. The horrible, truthful things.

"... I even gave you a new name when your clients came to me, claimin' that you tricked them! Didn't I? DIDN'T I? '... pretendin' to be a bird when he wasn't...', '... not what I paid for...'? I created a whole new identity for you, made you into somethin' worth wantin'. Gave you a way to repay my generosity! And what did I get in return? A gender-confused little bitch that FUCKS ME OVER ANY CHANCE HE GETS!!"

Dickie couldn't hold back the tears any longer. He dropped his head to his chest and allowed the tears to falls, sobs rattling through his ribcage. The Impresario knelt in front of him, rummaging in the pocket of his ragged coat. Producing a brown paper bag, he shoved a grimy hand inside and retrieved a handful of brightly coloured pills. He chose four from the selection and pressed one to Dickie's painted lips.

"You are goin' to take these for me, like a good little pet. Fall right back off the wagon. You get to choose, Dickie. Obey your master, who has been so _kind_ to a pathetic little urchin such as yourself. Or take a little _walk_ from the top floor of my building. It's a long way down, Dickie..."

He pushed the pill against Dickie's lips more forcefully.

"CHOOSE DICKIE, FUCKIN' CHOOSE!!"

Dickie opened his mouth and dry swallowed each the pills, gagging as he felt them catch in his throat. The Impresario petted his hair after each one and cooed at him appreciatively, murmuring repeated 'good boy's and 'little pet's as he swallowed. Once he was satisfied that the pills were not going to make a reappearance, The Impresario dragged himself to his feet and turned towards the door.

"I'll have one of my other whores drop off your coke tomorrow. You better be top of your game tomorrow night, my pet. Any more complaints this week, and I'll have to stop bein' so nice to you."

He strode out the door and slammed it behind him, leaving Dickie shaking on the floor, in his wake. The sound of the door slamming reverberated against the walls for what seemed like forever. 

Eventually, quietness slowly snuck back in, punctured only by occasionally dripping pipes and soft, quiet sobs.

\--------------------

Dickie had stopped keeping proper track of time after his first year of service to the Impresario. The day he realised that the position he had found himself in was less of an 'until you get back on his feet' situation, and more of a 'life imprisonment until you are killed or overdose' one. 

He did know that it must have been somewhere in the region of ten years, at this point. Ten long, gruelling years. Several close calls with murderous clients, murderous street folk, a murderous Impresario... 

A handful of almost fatal overdoses (that weren't always accidental). 

Sex for business, never for pleasure. Drugs to block out the memories, never for fun.

The memories never stayed away for very long.

\--------------------

One memory seemed to have valiantly remained on a constant loop, throughout the intervening years. The day that _he_ left. 

Howard.

Back then, Dickie had a different name. And a very different life. 

He still remembered his name. But he hadn't used it in years. He didn't even know if he could at this point. The person he was then, and the person he was now... they couldn't be more different.

He had been pretty satisfied with his life back then. It wasn't perfect, but he got by. He struggled to get ahead in the world of music, but had still enjoyed performing whenever he got the chance. He worked in a weird little shop with hardly any customers, but had liked how the slow pace gave him time to chat and try out new styles.

He had friends, groupies, fans. Flatmates willing to help him out in a bind. 

But most importantly, he had _him_.

Howard.

Howard was his best friend, his other half. His tall, strong Northerner. A hopeless romantic; sensitive and kind. They lived together, worked together, performed together. Even slept in the same room. Dickie no longer remembered when exactly the line had began to blur. An intensely close friendship slowly developing into what _could_ have been a proper, loving relationship. 

Then Howard left.

Howard had always wanted more from life. He had went through careers faster than Dickie had went through trends. Zookeeper, jazz poet, wildlife photographer...

Novelist. 

Explorer.

Actor.

That was the one that finally worked out. Danish avant-garde film became the one thing that he ended up being properly good at. The thing that made him up and leave London for good. Leave _Dickie_ for good.

Dickie waited for his return, not worrying too much to begin with. He had plenty to keep him busy, and Howard's abysmal track record allowed him to assume that he would be back before too long.

He had continued attending parties, delighting his hangers-on with stories of the 'gorilla' and 'shaman' he lived with (Bollo, his exceptionally hairy, part-time-DJ flatmate, and Naboo, their short and elusive landlord; whose powers were limited to making the perfect weed brownie and peddling narcotics to trendies). 

Dickie had had a vibrant imagination back then, and could put a good spin on anything. 'The Sunshine Kid', they used to call him.

When his concept for a children's book about a bubblegum monster had been stolen, the monster came to life to seek revenge on his behalf. When the Nabootique fell victim to a racketeering scam, he wove the tale into a surreal musical number. Even an attempted rape whilst on a camping trip had somehow become a fantastical story about yeti mating.

He had tried, in the months following Howard's departure, to apply the same sunshiney spin to his current situation. Howard had gone away, but he was going to come back! Howard was definitely going to come back!

But unfortunately, this wasn't like the stories that he told his friends. The stories that Howard knew the true versions of, but never told anyone. His imagination seemed to have followed Howard to mainland Europe. He didn't come back.  


Dickie was alone.

\--------------------

When he was offered his first candy-coloured pill at a house party, Dickie found it impossible to refuse. Letting some chemicals take control of his brain for a couple of hours; it sounded like bliss. Short-lived, but exactly what he needed. Something to help him feel less alone.

The partying accelerated, and he was soon finding it difficult to wake up on time for work. To wake up fully sober at all, in fact. His work suffered, and Naboo had had no choice but to let him go.  
Howard had always been the one who directed him in the more 'adult' aspects of life; when it was time to eat something other than strawberry bootlaces, when it was time to go to bed. Howard was the one who helped him get and keep his only two _real_ jobs. Without him in the picture, Dickie found it impossible to get another job. His meagre savings had been poured into maintaining his lifestyle and image.  


After three months of not receiving any rent, Naboo finally kicked him out.

He still had his friends back then, at least. They didn't really make him feel less alone, but they were company in the most basic sense. Someone to dance with, someone to kiss. Someone to make him laugh. Someone to listen to him spin a tale and applaud at his storytelling skills.  


Couch surfing and being the celebrity guest at parties kept Dickie from falling into proper homelessness, at the beginning. It worked out pretty well for a while.  
But eventually, the party invites became less and less frequent. People began to notice that he never seemed to contribute to the booze or the drugs, that his stories were becoming repetitive and a little boring. He desperately tried to stay on top, bleaching his hair and trying out wilder, more outlandish styles. He maintained his appearance well enough that he was rarely refused a bed to sleep in (perhaps for a sexual favour or two). It wasn't perfect, but he got by. 

\--------------------

Unfortunately, it was around that time that the global-warming warnings that everyone had been happily ignoring finally reached breaking point. 

More specifically, the Thames itself reached breaking point. 

The flooding was extensive and sudden. Soho, Camden, Shoreditch... even as far out as Dalston. Everywhere was washed away within a matter of hours. The low lying homes close to the river; the ones that almost every contact in Dickie's little black book resided in; they were the first to go. Many of them drowned trying to save their treasured clothing and accessories. Several more had simply never learned to swim because water safety hadn't been in vogue for years.

The rest died upon the arrival of the 'giant iceberg' and the 'four hundred polar bears'. (The influx of contract killers and criminals that poured into London on makeshift rafts, to wreck havoc on the city. Dickie couldn't bear to think what they may have done to his friends. So he chose to use all of his remaining imagination to think otherwise.) 

Dickie, still vaguely searching for the happy ending to his and Howard's story, and attempting to drum up interest at his disappearance (absence makes the heart grow fonder, right?) had spent the week prior to the catastrophe in Yorkshire. The part of his brain that still remembered the _true_ versions of his stories had been sensible that week, and suggested that Howard might be hiding out up north (to deal with the embarrassment of failing as an actor). He had chalked the massive increase in rain down to 'typical Northern weather' and had no idea what had happened in London. Until he attempted to return. 

No train services. London underwater. Thousands dead.

When he finally made it back (almost a week later) not a single friend remained alive.  
Even Bollo, who had escaped death on at least one occasion, had perished with the rest.

He was alone.

Truly, profoundly alone.


	2. Impresario

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a little... filler-y.  
> I wanted to explore the idea of how Dickie ended up in the position that he did more deeply, kind of give him more of a character within this universe.

London underwater was a terrifying place to be. Dickie, always accustomed to having someone around, didn't know what to do at the beginning. Struggling to deal with the loss of everyone he cared about, combined with the boredom of not having anyone to talk to; it wasn't a good combination.

He allowed himself to get to know some of the remaining residents of the city, eventually. 

Thieves, squatters and drug addicts. Prostitutes and scammers. 

They were not the kind of people that he would have ever lowered himself to acknowledge in the past, and he found himself cursing his past attitudes with every passing day. They were unreliable, sure, but no more unreliable than the trendsetters he had surrounded himself with in the old days. And they knew where to get all of the _best_ drugs.  


Drugs had only been a 'weekend' thing for Dickie, prior to his return to London. Just for fun. Pills at a party, the occasional line of cocaine in the men's bathrooms at a club. Upon returning to a world of death and destruction, drugs became a much more important part of his day-to-day life. Something to keep him going, something to make him forget. With each day that passed, he felt less and less like the person he used to be. 

He also found that he didn't really care. 

\--------------------

The addiction started to take control, after about eight months. Dickie had taken to performing various sexual acts to feed his habit, but the hunger just continued to grow.  
He had always taken good care of his appearance. His slender body and girlish hips, long hair and large eyes gave him a feminine edge that endeared him to many people. Men who were curious but didn't want to be 'gay', men who didn't care either way. Older women who wanted a toy to play with. 

Dickie's naturally flirtatious nature got him quite far. But inside, he just felt worse and worse about himself. He couldn't stand the feeling of a stranger's hands on him, knowing that he only allowed it to feed a habit. He felt disgusted at himself every time they leered at him, knowing that they were always in charge. He risked his face and his life every time he stepped into a damp, dingy bathroom stall or a dirty, draughty squat. 

But he was desperate. What else could he do? 

\--------------------

And then, as if by magic, everything changed.

Dickie was sitting in a bathroom stall, at one of the many underground clubs that littered the city. He nursed his bleeding lip and tried to stop the tears that were smudging his eye makeup. The man who had accompanied him to the stall had wanted more than just a blowjob and Dickie had not been as willing as his companion would have liked.  


Dickie had been wondering how much makeup it would take to cover up the split when he heard a tapping on his stall door. He held his breath, hunched up against the toilet, terrified. The unlocked door slowly swung open and Dickie cowered at the large figure staring down at him.

And that was how he met The Impresario. 

\--------------------

**05:13am**

Dickie was still awake. Thinking.

It had been different at the start. 

At least, it had _felt_ different. 

\--------------------

The Impresario had been incredibly kind on that first night. He had knelt down in front of Dickie and stroked his cheek, gently thumbing the bruise blossoming around his split lip. He had wrapped Dickie in his heavy coat and led him back to the abandoned high rise building from which he operated his businesses. He had laid Dickie to sleep in a soft bed, very unlike the cardboard thin mattresses he had shared over the previous months.

He fed him, provided him with all the drugs he could want. He treated him with a level of affection that Dickie hadn't felt since the good times. The good times with Howard.

And just like that, Dickie was smitten.

At the beginning, Dickie mainly worked as an assistant to the Impresario. He attended parties, oversaw the preparation of meals and banquets, booked prostitutes to accompany the Impresario for the night. The first couple of months were exciting and _almost_ fun. It felt good to be a sidekick again. The Impresario was far more short-tempered than Howard, and he could be very cruel. Dickie sometimes found himself at the receiving end of his temper, but the apologies (although less and less genuine as time went by) always placated him for a while. He felt grateful for the safety and security he had been gifted. It wasn't perfect, but he got by.  


But nothing lasts forever.

At the end of Dickie's first year in service to the Impresario, he had been summoned to his office under the pretence of an 'important meeting'. Upon arrival, he had been presented with a selection of tight, short dresses, in various shades of white, pale pink and pale blue. The Impresario sat Dickie on his lap and gently pulled his bleached hair into pigtails. He directed him towards the clothing and selected a lacy pink babydoll dress. Dickie dressed quickly, pulling on fishnet stockings and a string of pearls. The Impresario smiled approvingly, but with an edge that Dickie had only previously seen when he perused the prostitutes in his employ. 

Dickie's stomach dropped, he had a feeling that he knew what was coming. 

\--------------------

"You'll work at leas' five nights a week. I have a room set up for you on the basement level. You'll like it, all bright lights and that sparkly shit you like..."

Dickie had before him, trying to maintain his composure and control his wobbling lip.

"... we've been gettin' a lot of requests for girly boys. You know the type, I'm sure you met enough of 'em before I found you..." he chuckled, a scratchy, almost sinister sound.  
"I'm advertising you as 'Dickie', I think it's fuckin' funny. You're to entertain these gentlemen in any way they ask. Some will want you to be their little princess, some will probably want to be slapped around a bit. I'm keeping you as my assistant too, mind. You're to keep up all your other duties. Look at it as... more responsibility. There's a good little pet."

"But..." Dickie began, trying to figure out how to reason with his master.

"No fucking BUTS!" the Impresario growled, cutting him off immediately. "You need to earn your keep, and it's about time you learnt some respect! You're to dress in the clothes I give you, keep yourself pretty for your clients. Or you're goin' to see a side of me you'll definitely regret."

And so Dickie's new life began.

It had been terrifying to begin with. Some of the men were disgusting, gross creatures who made him feel unsafe and objectified.  
Slowly, however, he began to harden. 

He welcomed his clients with all of the coyness that he had been instructed to show. Once inside his den, however, the sweetness disappeared. He insulted his clients, attacking them with his words, slapping them round the face with the rubber gloves he used to avoid touching them. He rode them hard and fast, biting, scratching, screaming in their faces. Releasing all of the pent up emotions he carried around in his mind. His clients loved it, they loved him.

He allowed himself to become Dickie, and finally let his old life slip away.

\--------------------

**10:32am**

A light tapping on the service door awoke Dickie from his half-sleep and he dragged himself off of the floor to answer it. A young, pretty woman stood there, looking nervous, and holding a small block wrapped in brown paper, in one silk-gloved hand. Dickie smiled at her, trying to be as genuine as possible. She seemed to be one of the newer recruits, she almost reminded him a little of himself, when he first started out. Her nervousness didn't fade, so scowling, Dickie ripped the package from her grasp, muttered a thank you and slammed the door in her face.

He sat at the vanity in the corner of his living quarters and surveyed his face.

"No wonder she looked so scared..." he sighed.

His makeup, which had become more and more outlandish throughout the years, was smeared across his face. Lipstick dotted his teeth and strands of yellowish hair plastered his face, stuck there by a mixture of tears and sweat. He looked a mess.

Dickie wiped his face clean as best he could, and reapplied the brightly coloured makeup that made up his mask. Tape along each cheekbone, followed by a heavy line of blush, defining his already sharp features. Thin black lines above each eyebrow, ending in conflicting right angles. It gave him a look of surprise and distracted clients from his despondent eyes. Dark red lipstick, one side of his cupid's bow drawn on higher than the other, giving the illusion of a constant snarl.

He sighed and adjusted his pigtails, letting some choppy bits of hair fall about his face. His hair had once been the pride of his life, but not so much anymore. No point when some greasy client was bound to shove his hands into it at some point tonight.

Dickie still wore the dresses the Impresario had 'gifted' him all of those years ago. He had gained some weight over the years, and some of the dresses pulled tightly across his chest, clinging to his body, highlighting his soft belly and little tits. He had originally tried to 'let himself go', attempting to turn off some of his clients and make the Impresario change his mind about pimping him out. But a little extra weight simply made him more alluring, the softness feminising him even more. 

He built up muscle from throwing clients around and learning how to fight back, which added a confusing level of masculinity to his appearance. Another attempt to cut down his client base. It was too late at that point. His regulars loved him, and word of mouth had made him one of the Impresario's most popular attractions. He was stuck.

_It wasn't perfect. But he got by._

Dickie opened the package that had been delivered that morning, spreading some of the white powder across the 'drug table' in the corner of the main playroom of his den. He dropped to his knees in front of it, biting one painted lip.

He had a banquet to prepare for, a kitchen to supervise. The Impresario had a lot of enemies and he had to ensure no one tried to poison him tonight.

He cut a line and snorted it, throwing his head back and waiting for his blood vessels to absorb the cocaine, before pulling himself to his feet and setting off to start his day.


	3. An Unusual Client

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for a bit of smut towards the end, if you're not into that!  
> Long, drawn-out chapter, full of ~feelings and realisations~.

His last client had been an easy one. Small, skinny, just wanted to be taken care of. Dickie liked having the occasional affectionate client, he could almost pretend that their feelings were real. At least until they paid up and scurried out of the den.

Leaving him alone. Again.

The night was coming to a close, and he was glad. He had worked extra hard to make up for the misdemeanours of the previous week. The Impresario had barely acknowledged his efforts, but he _had_ left him alone, which Dickie viewed as a win.

Dickie sat on one of the small plastic chairs in the main room of his den, spreading his legs out in front of him and playing with a run in his stocking. His mind had been swirling for the past two weeks, since the last time he tried to get clean and plan another escape. Normally, he just fell back into his routine afterwards. Once or twice, he had attempted an overdose (but that just got him into more trouble... and it fucking _hurt_ ). 

The sex work wasn't really that much of a drag, he supposed. He was used to it, he simply shut himself down. And it _did_ help to release some tension. But he was finding it hard to fall back into the loyal servant role. He didn't know why it was so different this time.

Or maybe he did.

The memories of his past were fighting to the surface more and more regularly. He tried to fight them the only way he knew how; drugs and beating the shit out of his more sadomasochistic clients. But it wasn't working this time. Fractured memories kept flashing into his mind.

Work related road-trips with Howard, singing along to his 80s electo compilations.  
Dressing as goths to pick up girls, then just going off to play bingo together instead.  
Introducing the whole of Dalston to 'crimping' and proving themselves the true 'Kings of Crimp'.

_... Giving Howard his first proper kiss. On the rooftop, on his birthday..._

A couple of sharp taps to the service door shook Dickie from the whirlwind of memories and he jumped from his chair to greet the final client of the night. 

\--------------------

The man at the door looked completely insane. Dickie was used to strange clients; living in a world of anarchy made people a little less worried about their appearance. 

This man, however, was definitely on the higher end of the 'strange' scale.

He was dressed in an odd tunic that looked to be made from burlap or an equally scratchy material. Dickie appreciated how well the shorn hemline displayed his long, willowy legs. His eyebrows were drawn on in large arches that drew attention from his eyes, which were small but rather smouldering. A beard obscured most of his face. He definitely needed a shave (and possibly a bath), but that could be said for a lot of Dickie's clients.

Nevertheless, Dickie carried out the usual greeting routine, glancing up at the stranger through his lashes and tilting his head to the side as he smiled. He reached forward and gently placed his gloved palm on the man's burlap chest.

At which point the man lurched away, looking scandalised.

"Don't touch me!"

Dickie started, not sure how to respond. He'd had clients in the past, who preferred minimal touching. But generally because they favoured using other kinds of objects for pleasure. And that was once the door was closed, after they had explained their desires and everyone assumed their roles. No one was ever this cagey beforehand. It also reminded him of something. _Someone_. 

He shook the thought from his mind and quickly removed his hand.

"Gonna be pretty fuckin' hard to give you what you want if I can't touch you, mate."

The client tugged at the uneven hem of his weird little dress and shuffled awkwardly on his feet. He had the decency to look a bit bashful, and Dickie felt a little pang of empathy. He hated feeling anything towards his clients, but this one seemed kind of... _different_.

Dickie sighed, grabbing the front of the man's tunic (potato sack?) and pulling him into the den, slamming the door behind him. 

\--------------------

It had been ten minutes, and the man had yet to give any inclination as to what he wanted from Dickie. He sat in one of the small plastic chairs, and Dickie found the image of such a large man sat in such a tiny chair rather comical. He had spent most of the ten minutes biting his tongue and trying not to giggle at the sight. Something about this man gave him a weird, fizzy feeling in his tummy. It was like that time he accidentally mixed an E with half a tab of acid. But somehow better. It suddenly struck him just how long it had been, since he felt anything other than fear or sadness.

"What the fuck is going on with you?" he thought furiously. "You never get like this with clients! Just ask him what he wants, get him off, call him a prick and throw him out on the street!"

He slid off the table on which he had been perched and slid to the floor in front of the strange man, careful not to touch him.

"So what brings you here tonight, sunshine? What you after, hmmm? Just a straightforward suck n' fuck? Big man like you... you wanna be tied up and taught a lesson? Or something a little more fun? I got plenty of toys and..."

The man glanced at Dickie before shiftily looking away. He looked incredibly nervous, not unlike the barely-legal boys that sometimes found their way into the den, still pure and completely lacking in experience. Unsure if they liked men, or women. Or anything. Or everything. The realisation dawned on Dickie as he watched the blush rise on his client's cheeks.

"... You... You ain't done this before? 'Ave you?"

The man looked incredibly embarrassed now, and Dickie couldn't help but feel that annoying little stab of empathy again. He laid a hand on the man's bare knee and thankfully wasn't pushed away this time.

"Look hun, it's okay. You... errr... you ain't the first virgin to walk through my door. Bit on the old side, sure. But it's okay. Ehm. Women respect that in a man, y'know?"

His brain was screaming at him to stop rambling, to either get the job done or kick the punter out. He closed his eyes and shut it down. This whole situation was weird. But it felt different. Like he was could help this man. Do something that would make them both feel better. He made a decision. 

\--------------------

Dickie led the man to the back of the den, where a door was disguised by a bright, glittery mural of a unicorn. It led to the small bedroom that he had inhabited ever since the Impresario had kicked him out of his living quarters. 

A bed, his vanity and a small chest of drawers. Boots thrown haphazardly in a corner. It was bare and bland in comparison to the bright lights of his den, which still filtered in through the gap under the door. But it was the only private space he had in this new, warped version of London.

It was not somewhere he would _ever_ have brought a client. Until now.

Dickie pushed the man onto the bed, a little more roughly than he probably should have, and straddled his lap. He peered down at the man quizzically. This stranger had lit an odd, childlike wonder in him, the kind that he had been sure was _long_ gone. This situation called for something he hadn't done _once_ in all of his years working under the Impresario.

He cautiously lowered himself over the man, and kissed him gently on the lips.

His kiss was returned as cautiously as it had been received and Dickie found himself getting excited. The foggy memories of times long past entered his mind, the excitement of kissing someone that you really liked. The feeling of kissing _Howar..._

Dickie jerked back suddenly, shaking his head. The man raised a hesitant hand to his cheek and Dickie nuzzled into it, unconsciously. It wasn't until he felt the man's thumb stroke below his eye, that he realised he was crying. 

\--------------------

Dickie left the room briefly, to pull himself together. He wrapped his arms around himself and scratched at his upper arms, nails leaving a mark, even through his gloves.  
He glanced at his drug table, considering a line or two to help him calm down, but it just didn't seem right. Not with this one.

He returned to the room. The man was still lying on his bed, propped up on his elbows and looking worried. 

No one worried about Dickie. It made his heart beat a little faster.

"Are you okay sir... err... miss?" he asked, looking Dickie properly in the face for the first time since his arrival. His accent had a Northern lilt that was pleasing and strangely calming.

Dickie plastered on his best fake grin and sauntered back towards the bed.

"Course... course, hun! Momentary lapse. Would appreciate you not spread it around, but it won't happen again, promise!"

He climbed back onto his client's lap and slid his hands down the man's broad, scratchy chest.

"Let's get this off, hmmm? Don't want to get carpet burn, do we?" he murmured, pulling at the shapeless tunic-sack.

The man laughed softly at that and Dickie felt a warm feeling fill his tummy. He adjusted his position, to allow the man to remove his multi-purpose utility belt and carefully pull the burlap disaster over his head. Dickie unzipped his own figure-hugging white dress and tugged it off. He was momentarily embarrassed at the realisation that he still had two large black Xs taped across his nipples, from a previous client that had wanted a strip-tease. He peeled them off quickly, hoping all of the makeup he was wearing would cover up his blush.

Dickie was completely used to being naked in front of strangers. Some clients wanted everyone involved to be naked, some preferred Dickie to be bare while they remained fully clothed. Some wanted the opposite, or a mixture of both. It didn't bother him. 

But the way the man beneath him was looking at him was making him feel... _shy_.

It was a look of complete and utter amazement; a sweet, almost _loving_ gaze. His eyes were open wide (looking much more proportional to his face) and his mouth formed a small 'o'.

He slid his huge hands down along Dickie's sides, pausing on his rounded hips and stroking the long, faded scar that stretched from hip bone to the top of his lacy black knickers. The man looked puzzled, and Dickie felt an odd impulse to explain himself.

"It's nothin' luv. Fell asleep on my straighteners years and years ago, like a proper ditz. It don't hurt any more, but it left one hell of a mark."

The man continued to look troubled, and Dickie's strange feeling of shyness was getting worse.

He lowered his head to the man's neck and started kissing his way down, across his slightly flabby chest and warm, pudgy stomach. He slid the man's underwear down, revealing a rather impressive cock, hard and leaking. Reaching up to the pillow below the man's head, he fished out a small bottle of lube, before dropping back down and taking the head of the swollen cock into his mouth.

The man gasped and bucked his hips and Dickie laughed softly around the erection. He continued to suck and lap at the head, slipping off his glove and lubing up his bare hand. He slid his hand around the shaft and began to pump slowly, enjoying the little gasps and moans from his partner.

Knowing the man probably wouldn't last long, he pulled away and grabbed a condom from a bowl on his vanity. He slipped it down the man's shaft and leant forward to kiss and nibble on the inside of his partner's strong thighs, as he prepared himself. It didn't take long to scissor himself open wide enough to take the man's cock, and he quickly adjusted his position and lined himself up.

The man was breathing heavily and watching Dickie with the same odd look of troubled adoration. But he quickly shut his eyes and threw his head back, as he felt his cock enter Dickie's tight hole. Dickie slid down slowly before pulling himself up and slamming back down, with a little more force. He built up a rhythm, lazily palming his own cock and closing his eyes as the man explored his body with his large, dexterous hands. Cupping his small tits and thumbing at his sensitive nipples, stroking his soft belly and hips. Gentle and sweet. Almost romantic. He squeezed Dickie's round arse as he came, hard. Dickie followed within a minute, surprising himself with how little time it had taken him to get off.

He climbed off his client, pulling off the condom and tossing it into the corner of the room. Hesitantly, he lay beside the man, placing his head on his partner's chest. 

His brain screamed at him to pull himself together. "You don't cuddle with clients, you berk!"

The man seemed to disagree with that thought, as he pulled Dickie close and ran his fingers through his hair gently. His eyes were closed, as he rode out the aftershock of his first shared orgasm. He was mumbling something quietly and Dickie raised his head to try and pick up the words.

The same word over and over. 

Not just a word. A name.

"... _Vince. _"__


	4. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! I'm so sorry it took so long, and really hope this chapter will make up for the absence.  
> (Warning for a LOT of angst and physically abusive behaviour.)

Dickie jerked away from the man as though he had been burned.

"What the FUCK did you just say?" he screamed, pressing his back against the bed frame at the end of the bed and pulling his knees protectively to his chest. "What did you just call me?"

The man sat up, pulling the bed sheet around his naked body. He looked intently at Dickie, small eyes dark and brooding. The silence in the room felt heavy.

Eventually the man cleared his throat. 

"I called you... I called you 'Vince'..." he began. 

"And judging by your reaction... I imagine you recognise that name?"

Dickie stared back at the man. His mind was whirling. The name, the name that no one had used for a decade. _His_ name. No one in the New-London (apart from the Impresario) knew that name anymore. No one who knew him from the times of Old-London was left alive. No one. Except... 

Dickie slowly lowered his gaze and hugged his knees tighter to his chest. His breathing had become heavy as he tried to figure out whether this was really happening or not.  
He jumped as a large hand landed gently on his knee and forced himself to look at the man's face again.

The man's eyes were soft and gentle and filled with emotion. No one looked at him like that, not even the most smitten of his clients. His face began to blur, as Dickie felt his eyes fill with tears.

"... 'Oward?" he choked out, voice small and scared.

The man's hand reached forward to cup his cheek, closing the space between them to press their foreheads together.

"Yes Vince. It's me. It's Howard." 

\--------------------

It took a long time for Vince to calm himself down. He threw himself into Howard's arms and clung tight to him, not wanting to let go, for fear that it was all in his head. Terrified to lose him again.

Howard petted his hair and murmured soft things in his ear, calming him with his gentle voice and warm presence. 

Eventually Vince calmed down enough to release Howard from his iron grip. He sat back and scrubbed his eyes like a child, not caring how his makeup smudged all over his face. They sat facing each other, Vince staring at him in wonder and trying to figure out what to say.

Suddenly it hit him.

"... 'Oward! We... we just had sex! We just... We just..."

Howard stared at him for a long moment, then burst out laughing.

"We haven't seen each other for over a decade, and that's your biggest concern? Good to know you haven't changed that much... Little Man."

The old nickname drove a sharp spike into Vince's heart. 

"I have though 'Oward," he mumbled in a small voice. "Look at me. I'm just a junkie prozzie that ain't got nothin' to offer anyone. 'Ow come you're even alive? 'Ow did you even find me?"

Howard took Vince's hand in his and stroked his thumb across his palm slowly.

"I don't doubt that things have been difficult for you. But you'll always have something to offer. I've visited quite a few... erm... places of business... while searching for you. But none ever took my hesitation into account, or tried to make me comfortable like you did tonight. So with regards to us... ah... having relations... I daresay I would have gone through with it even if it didn't turn out to be you. It's not a nice world out there anymore, Vince. A little kindness goes a long way. And you were always kind, when you forgot about being cool. "

He paused and looked down, as Vince attempted not to cry again.

"I returned two years after the flood. You probably don't recall, but I spent a lot of time researching the concept of global warming prior to leaving for Denmark. I had been preparing a bunker in an abandoned car-park in South London on the off chance that this might occur. But then I left and..."

His grip on Vince's hand tightened.

"I came back and thought you were dead. I tried to ask around but people either didn't know who I meant or didn't want to talk to me. I've been living in the bunker. It's been a solitary life; venturing out occasionally for supplies... I'd given up on ever seeing anyone I once knew ever again." 

Vince stayed silent but squeezed Howard's hand back to encourage him to continue. Howard smiled softly at him and paused for a couple of seconds, seemingly enjoying the feeling as much as Vince was.

"On one of my trips into the city, I overheard some men talking. They mentioned a... a prostitute. Said you wouldn't know if they were a man or a woman. 'Bit of a confuser', he said."

Vince laughed quietly at that. 'The Confuser' had been one of his many nickname back in Old-London. He couldn't believe that he'd forgotten, but that Howard hadn't.

"... I knew it was a long-shot, but I tried to get the man to tell me where to find this person. I had to know. But he wasn't very forthcoming with the information. I suspect he didn't want to share..."

Vince nodded sadly, interrupting Howard's train of thought.

"Some of 'em are possessive bastards. Not just over me, a lot of the girls got it much worse... But I've 'ad at least three who was convinced they loved me. I 'ad to batter one of 'em wiv a chair to get 'im to leave and he still came back two weeks later...". 

He trailed off, noticing the look of sadness that crossed Howard's face.

"... it's okay 'Oward. Honest. It's okay. I'm still alive, ain't I?"

Howard sighed and pressed their foreheads together once more, stroking Vince's hair with his large, warm hand.

"Yes you are, Vince. Yes you are. No matter what, you're still alive and nothing can take that away. I've searched seems like every brothel in this stinking city and finally, _finally_ , here you are."

He slid his hand down along Vince's side, stroking the long scar across his hip. 

"I'm rather grateful that you fell asleep on your straighteners, all those years ago. I doubt I'd have recognised you otherwise."

Vince felt a pang of embarrassment, suddenly hyper-aware of his smudged makeup, ragged, badly-dyed hair and general nakedness.

"I know... 'm a fuckin' state..." he started, voice small and hollow.

Howard shushed him and grabbed his face with both hands. 

"No. You've clearly had a pretty rough time. But I'll always think you beautiful. I always did before, and I still do now. And I'd have recognised those eyes anywhere, Little Man. They're the last thing I think of before I fall asleep at night."

At that, Howard leaned in to kiss him softly on the lips. The room melted away from Vince's vision as a wave of emotion released itself from deep within his chest.

Howard started to fall asleep first, arms wrapped securely around Vince. Vince, _so_ sure that he had long forgotten how to feel anything but indifference and anger, tried to work out what had happened. Howard had found him. He had never given up on him. He had re-lit a fire in his heart and it made him want to laugh and cry and lash out, all at once. 

Instead, he rested his head above Howard's chest, listening to his steady heartbeat and soft breathing.

"I love you, 'Oward." he muttered, closing his eyes.

He wasn't sure if he had imagined it. A whisper in the dark.

"I love you, too."

\--------------------

THUMP THUMP THUMP

Vince awoke with a violent jerk. The thundering knocks were soon joined by equally loud yelling.

"DICKIE! OPEN THIS FUCKIN' DOOR YOU LITTLE BITCH!"

Howard stirred beside him, opening his mouth to ask what was going on. Vince hurriedly clamped a hand over his mouth and shook his head, holding a finger to his own lips. He slid from the bed and grabbed a negligee-style dress from the pile on the floor. Ignoring the cum stain along one side, he tugged it over his head, turning toward Howard while scrubbing makeup from his face.

"Please please pleeeease..." he whispered, voice low and hurried. "No matter wot you hear, don't get involved. Stay 'ere, stay 'idden. I'll... I'll be back soon."

With that, he hurried out of the room, carefully closing the concealed door and running to the safety door.

"Coming, Impresario!" he squealed, unlatching the door and jumping back to allow the large man to enter.

"Fuckin' FINALLY!"

The Impresario strode inside and loomed over him, the pink and blue lights of the den making his face more distorted and menacing. He held a cigar in one hand and a brown sack in the other. Glancing around the room, he spotted the pile of white powder spread across the counter and his face broke into a cracked grin.

"Long night, Dickie dear?" he smirked. "Glad to see you've fallen back into yer old ways, sweet'art."

He thrust the sack at Vince and gestured at him to look inside. Vince pulled out a short, black, velvet dress, with a long lace train attached. He stared at it briefly, before glancing at his master in slight confusion.

"Oh don't give me that, Dickie. It's Saturday. We 'av a big party tonight, and you are to accompany me."

"But... but I thought Chrissie..."

"Little Chrissie ain't gonna be goin' anywhere anytime soon, m'dear. Seems she got sweet on one of the regulars, thought she should be allowed to walk away from 'er commitments to me." 

Vince shivered.

"An' as you well know, that ain't somethin' that I allow..."

The Impresario chuckled and reached out to grasp Vince's shoulder.

"So I decided that you'll be 'er replacement. You're still on thin ice yourself, mind. So this ain't just a social event. I'll be keepin' my eye on you. An' if none of them other whores impress me tonight... you'll be fillin' in for Chrissie afterwards too."

Vince squeaked in terror. The Impresario had never attempted to fuck him before. Vince had always assumed that he still held just enough respect over the various girls that the Impresario owned, to not have to get involved like they did.

The Impresario could clearly read his mind.

"Oh I see. Does that not SUIT YOU, princess?"

He was yelling again, spitting in Vince's face, the putrid smell of cigar smoke invading Vince's senses.

"You ain't better than none of them, ya know! Maybe once, back when you knew 'ow to fuckin' BEHAVE! But not now. Now yer just another dirty whore. That's all yer ever gonna be, so you best get used to it!"

He grabbed Vince's wrist with his free hand and pressed the lit cigar against the soft skin of his inner bicep. Vince screamed out in pain and wrenched away from him, stumbling against the wall.

The Impresario stayed in place, sneering down at his assistant. 

"Hopefully that'll do well to remind you oo' you belongs to, you uppity little slut. No clients today, I don't want you too worn out. Try not ta go too 'ard on the coke either. I'll be back for you tonight around 7. Ger yourself cleaned up and make yourself pretty."

With that, he turned on his heel and strode out of the den, slamming the door and leaving Vince to slide to the floor, breathing harshly through his nose to distract from the pain in his arm.

\--------------------

Vince had lost count of how many minutes had passed since the Impresario's departure. His eyes were closed, and the raw skin where he had been burnt throbbed. His eyes shot open as he felt a hand close around his wrist.

Howard crouched beside him, a deep look of concern crossing his face. Vince went limp and allowed Howard to twist his arm to reveal the cigar burn. Howard sucked in a sharp breath and gently pulled Vince to the sink in one corner of the room. He carefully cleaned the burn, and producing a small tube of gel and bandage from his utility belt, wrapping Vince's arm and pulling him into a loose hug.

Vince finally emerged from his comatose state and sobbed quietly into Howard's shoulder. Howard just held him in place and rocked him gently until he broke away. 

\--------------------

"You have to leave, Vince. You have to."

Howard eventually broke the silence that filled the den. 

Vince slowly turned his head from its position against Howard's shoulder, to look him in the eye. His eyes were red and tired.

"I can't." he replied simply.

He turned away again as Howard opened and closed his mouth, looking for the right thing to say.

"I know you think you owe that... that _fucker_. But you don't! You don't deserve that, how he treats you! You're so much better than that!"

Vince sighed and rose to his feet.

"That's just it, ain't it? I'm _not_ better than that. E's right, y'know? Everything 'e said. I owe him for everyfing. I'm never gonna repay my debt, he makes well sure of that. Can't ever repay 'im for the drugs cause I ain't allowed to stop. I owe 'im for giving me a place to live, for keeping me safe. I ain't gonna be free until he dies... or until I do."

He turned away from Howard, hugging himself and continuing in a resigned tone.

"But _you're_ better than this, 'Oward. You don't deserve to get messed up in all of this. This is my problem, this is my fault. You need to leave, the last thing I want is 'im to find you here. Fuck knows what he'd do."

Howard rose to his feet and stepped towards Vince, wrapping him protectively in his arms from behind, burying his face in his hair. His voice was low when he spoke, but Vince heard every word.

"I'm going to leave. But it's not because I believe that any of the things that bastard has made you think about yourself are true. I don't care what you've done."

He squeezed Vince tighter.

"I'm going to see you soon. Now that I've finally found you, I will never let you go again. We're going to find a way to get you out of this." 

"You're the love of my life, Vince Noir, and you are worth saving."

Howard kissed Vince hair softly and ended their embrace. He walked away and exited the den without another word.

Vince allowed the tears to flow down his face until he could cry no more, arms still wrapped around himself.


	5. Banquet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's finally finished. I don't know if anyone is even reading this anymore, but if you are-- I really hope you enjoyed it!

The banquet hall in which the Impresario entertained his guests was overly warm and smokey. Vince shuffled uncomfortably in his velvet dress and leaned against a wall, close to the long table which seated the most prolific of his master's guests. 

He had had to force himself to put in an effort, following Howard's departure. It had taken him a long time to pull himself together and begin the process of dressing and prettying himself up.  


A line of cocaine and half an ekkie had eventually motivated him enough to get started, but he steered clear of the drugs after that. He may not be allowed to quit, but he wanted to try harder to stay a _little_ bit sober. 

Just in case Howard ever really did come back.

Vince had toned down his trademark 'Dickie' look a little, not applying the tape along his cheekbones, but keeping the thin black eyebrows and heavy eye makeup. His hair hung loose, spiking out at an occasional brittle angle (caused by years of haphazard bleaching).  
Even after years of neglect and wilful insanity, he could still pull off 'pretty', when he tried.

His dress was tight and itchy, the cheap material constricting and uncomfortable, the cut accentuating the slight curves of his body. It wouldn't have been a problem on a normal day. But his appearance had heavily impressed the Impresario, and Vince had had to resign himself to the strong possibility of taking Chrissie's place in his master's quarters at the end of the night.

Guests floated about the room; socialising, sipping on brightly coloured concoctions and pretending to enjoy themselves. The Impresario's parties were well known and well attended, but after several years of working in the background, Vince knew how the revellers really felt. The obligation to attend was strong. The Impresario often used the events to discuss business and if he found out that a guest whom he desired the company of had declined attendance... 

Well it rarely panned out well for the invitee. 

So here they all were, forging fake friendships, laughing too loudly at each other's lacklustre anecdotes. The performance and deception was stifling, and Vince wished, more than ever, that he could leave. Flee to his quarters, find Howard waiting there for him. Ready and waiting and armed with a plan. The true 'Man Of Action', that he always claimed to be. Knight in shining... er... burlap armour... there to save his princ--

A sharp poke in the ribs dragged Vince back to reality. He winced before turning his attention to his master.

"If you would be so _kind_ as to join us... back in the real world, m'dear..."

The Impresario's voice had adopted a sleazy politeness that he used for public events. Or at least until he got too drunk to remember where he was. It was syrupy and incredibly obvious and it made Vince feel nauseous.

He directed Vince to sit on his left hand side. Once seated, he grasped Vince's upper arm and squeezed down on the bandaged area. Vince hissed through his teeth, as pain shot through him. The Impresario leaned his face close to Vince's. He appeared to be whispering softly and calmly, from anyone else's perspective. 

"I told ya not to go too hard on the fuckin' drugs, ya junkie bitch! "Ya better get it together or you'll be well fuckin' sorry. Take this as yer last warnin', alright?"

Vince nodded sharply and sat back in his seat, forcing himself not to touch the wound on his arm, which now stung almost as badly as it had when it was put there. He vaguely wished that he _had_ actually drugged up a little more. If only to distract from the pain.

The Impresario rose from his seat to welcome the guests who had been invited to join him at the head table that evening. 

"Darling ladies, and distinguished gentlemen! I am proud to welcome you to my grand banquet!", he boomed. "Help yourself to the delicacies I have to offer, only the _very best_ for such distinguished guests!"

Vince had to stifle a laugh at that. Having often been in charge of overseeing the kitchen at such events, he knew exactly what 'the best' consisted of. Crows and pigeons scavenged from the streets; fried diced rats. He vaguely recalled a fox paraded as several different kinds of meat, a couple of months ago. Vegetables were usually doused in spices and salt, to mask the taste of decay. Bread was served in small chunks, because so much of it was covered in mould. 

Vince sipped on a glass of neat vodka, trying to hide his disgust as the guests helped themselves to the feast. 

\--------------------

The night wore on at a slow, grating pace. Vince was glad for it. The longer it went on, the longer it would be until he had to accompany his master to his quarters.  


The Impresario had sought out several 'viable' replacements, as the night progressed. None seemed to fulfil whatever criteria he was searching for. Vince's hand shook slightly, as he gulped back a large mouthful of his fifth straight vodka (or was it his sixth?). 

It had occurred to him about halfway through the night, that the Impresario most likely had no intention of truly finding anyone else. This was all an elaborate game, and his replacing of Chrissie was just yet another punishment for him to endure. 

Nothing for it then, but to get really, really drunk.

Vince vaguely heard the Impresario's voice (now slightly slurred) from the other end of the table. He had been happily antagonising one of many fortune tellers who filled that end of the bench- as he did every, _single_ time- but now he was apparently trying to make another announcement.

"Ladiiiies and gents, honoured guests... the rest of ye scumbags... let me introduce our entertainment fer the evenin'! 'The Jazz Maverick' and 'is accompanying pian-- peni-- pianist!"

Vince slowly glanced up from beneath his lashes. On the stage stood a tall man, clad in a worn suit, holding what looked like an old metal watering can. It had been fashioned to resemble a saxophone, spray-painted gold. 

_Howard._

He had shaved the majority of his facial hair, retaining the moustache that Vince remembered from years ago. He looked relatively clean and respectable. But most of all... he looked _determined_. 

The pianist kicked in, playing the intro to some long forgotten jazz number, and Howard soon joined in on his watering-sax.

Back in Old-London, Vince had claimed all sorts of allergies to jazz music, dismissing it as music for 'science teachers and the mentally ill'. But watching Howard perform in front of him filled his heart with a warmth that he couldn't even try to hate it.

The Impresario fell ungracefully into the seat beside him and flung an arm roughly around his shoulders. He stank of old sweat and the bootleg whiskey he had been chugging all night. Pressing a sloppy kiss to Vince's cheek, he closed his eyes and muttered in his ear. Vince tried not to recoil from his hot, moist breath.

"I'm gettin' bored of this shite, precious... 'bout time we headed upstairs, I reckon?"

Vince pulled away slowly, glancing towards the stage. Howard was still playing, but his eyebrows were knitted together in frustration, his eyes glued to Vince. Vince tilted his head slightly in the direction of the Impresario, then looked upwards to the ceiling. He hoped that Howard would figure out what he meant. 

Howard shook his head slightly and glared at the Impresario intently. 

Vince turned back towards his master, plastering on his sweetest, coyest smile.

"Oh Impresario!" he simpered, voice a pitch or two higher than usual. "Would it be okay if we waited until the music is over? Only I'm really enjoyin' it, it's really..." he lowered his voice to a sultry whisper "... really puttin' me in the _mood_..."

The Impresario raised an eyebrow and grinned, too drunk to notice Vince's strained smile.

"I jus' wanna be the best I can be for you, sir. The best you've EVER 'ad..."

The Impresario's grin grew wider, and he licked his lips.

"Hmmm... alright, sweet'art. I'll permit us ta stay a little longer. The wait will only make the endin' all the sweeter..."

Vince swallowed the bile that rose to his throat, faked another simpering smile and kissed his master softly on the cheek.

"You are _so_ good to Dickie, sir. Dickie wonders what 'e ever did to deserve such a kind master as you...". The Impresario chuckled at that, and rose unsteadily from his seat to hunt down another drink.

He waited until his master had stumbled away, before catching Howard's eye and nodding curtly. Howard returned his nod, continuing to play.

Vince sincerely hoped that he had a plan. 

\--------------------

Eventually the music slowed down and before Vince knew it, it was over. Howard and his musical companion left the stage, but didn't come near the main table.The Impresario had become very drunk and belligerent and Vince was starting to panic. He knew he couldn't stall any longer.

 _Come_ on _Howard_...

Vince was pulled roughly from his seat and felt the Impresario's large arm wrap tightly around his waist. They moved through the crowd towards the large double doors that led to the landing. Vince glanced around, trying to find Howard in the crowd. He couldn't see him anywhere, and felt his stomach drop.

"He left me." he thought. "He fucking left me again."

They were almost at the doors now. The Impresario squeezed Vince's hip and chuckled softly, sounding more menacing that amused.

"I'm lookin' forward to this, darlin'. Finally get to see why what all them punters keep comin' back. Finally get to put you in your place..."

Vince shivered involuntarily and forced himself not to cry.

They were about to walk through the doors when a large hand reached out to stop them, followed by a polite Northern accent.

"Excuse me, sir?" Howard asked, extending a hand for the Impresario to shake. "I would just like to thank you for allowing myself and my companion to perform tonight. We are honoured to be included in such a high status celebration. Please, take this as a token of our appreciation."

He produced a bottle of scotch, small but exceptionally high quality. The Impresario's eyes widened. Alcohol wasn't hard to come by in New-London, but it was mainly brewed in bathtubs and dirty barrels scavenged from the Thames. Liquor of this kind of quality was incredibly rare, and the Impresario, thinking himself deserving of only the best, was clearly very impressed.

"Good lord boy! That's what I like to see!" he boomed, clapping Howard on the shoulder. "Proper appreciation for a favour!"

He looked at Vince at that, deciding to pull him into the conversation.

"Ya see this Dickie? This is the kind of thing what people do when someone's done summat good for them. Summat to help 'em out. You could learn a lot from this!"

Vince nodded bluntly, not really listening. He noticed Howard's hand reach for him and accepted the handshake.

"Howard Moon, Jazz Maverick. Pleasure to make your acquaintance... er... Dickie, is it?"

Vince nodded, feeling a small piece of paper pass from Howard's hand into his own. He stared into Howard's eyes for a moment too long, and the Impresario interrupted their gaze with a loud cough.

"If you want to enjoy tha merchandise my boy, you'll have to make an appointment." he smirked, squeezing Vince's hip almost painfully. "This one ain't workin' tonight but I'm sure you'll get your chance."

At that, he nodded at Howard, clutching the bottle of scotch in his free hand, and led them through the doors and up the staircase to his office and living quarters. 

\--------------------

The room was dark and gloomy. Vince was shivering, but it wasn't due to the cold. The Impresario had excused himself to piss off the side of the balcony, leaving Vince briefly alone. 

He suddenly remembered the piece of paper, still clutched in his hand. Glancing in the direction of the balcony, he hurriedly unfolded the note and squinted in the low light to read Howard's neat handwriting. 

" _Get him to drink it. Don't drink any yourself. I love you._ "

Vince balled up the note and panicking slightly, swallowed it. 

The Impresario stumbled back into the room, cursing as he fell against a chest of drawers. Vince rushed over to him and led him to the bed, speaking in a soft, soothing tone.

"Oh sir, are you okay? That must have hurt! Here, why dontcha have some of that fancy drink that nice music man gave you? It might soothe the pain?"

The Impresario looked at him blearily and nodded, reaching for the open bottle and chugging back a large mouthful. He sighed in pleasure, nodding to himself.

"Aaahhhh... that's the stuff. I remember when ya could get this shit everywhere. It's been so long."

He offered the bottle to Vince.

"Seeing as you almos' behaved yerself tonight, you can have a little taste. Don' be expecting this kinda treatment everytime I bring ya out, mind!"

Vince nodded, but declined the offer of the bottle, as per Howard's instructions. He adopted the submissive tone he always slipped into around the Impresario.

"N-no sir. You're right. I've been so badly behaved. I don't d-deserve a nice thing like that. Stuff like that's for masters, not a common slag like me."

The Impresario paused, then nodded.

"Couldn't a said it better meself, m'dear. Glad ya seem to finally be learnin' your place. Now to continue yer education..."

With that, he proceeded to drain the bottle and shrug off his heavy coat. He directed Vince to the bed, and pushed him down, climbing on top of him and kissing him roughly. He smelled of alcohol and smoke and something decayed. It was disgusting and Vince found it hard to breathe, his master's weight crushing him into the lumpy mattress. The Impresario's hands scrambled for the hem of Vince's dress, pulling it up roughly and tearing the fishnet tights that Vince wore beneath it. Vince felt a tear slide down his cheek.  
Howard had tried, but it hadn't worked. The Impresario was still sober enough to go through with this, even after the whole bottle of scotch and god knows how much liquor during the party. There was no escape.

Suddenly, he felt the weight lift slightly from his chest. The Impresario sat back, holding his head in his hands and moaning in pain. He had started to sweat and seemed to be having difficulty breathing. He climbed off of Vince and staggered towards the balcony. Vince heard him vomiting over the edge. He crept towards the balcony and lay a hesitant hand on his master's arm.

"Sir? Sir-- are you alright?" 

The Impresario looked at him, his eyes out of focus, tendrils of spit and flecks of vomit sticking to his facial hair. He tried to speak, but the words came out all jumbled up. He clutched his stomach, moaning in pain and collapsed in a heap on the floor.

Vince crouched down beside his master, unsure what to do. He had seen the Impresario completely black-out drunk on several occasions. But he never reacted like this. Unless...  
Vince glanced back into the room, at the discarded scotch bottle. Surely Howard wouldn't have---

The Impresario groaned loudly on the floor beside him, his breathing coming out heavy and laboured. Vince made a decision.

He crept back into the room and crawled into the bed. Lying there in the dark, he tried to block out the pained moans coming from the balcony. The hours passed, and eventually a quietness fell. Vince closed his eyes and fell into a half sleep, as the sky began to lighten. 

\--------------------

He was awoken by a loud banging on the door of the Impresario's room. A high-pitched voice called through the door.

"Impresario, sir! I've brought your breakfast! I'm coming in, hope you're decent!"

The door swung open, and a young woman, Antoinette, entered. She was carrying a tray. She stopped short when she spotted Vince, but quickly regained her composure.

"Dickie! What a surprise! I never seen you here before! I thought the master only brought ladies back to his room! Where is he?"

Vince feigned a yawn and smiled sheepishly. He knew he had to play this just right.

"Yeah, it was our first time las' night. He was rewardin' me, I fink. I dno where he is though. I only just woke up now, when you knocked."

Antoinette grinned at him and lay the tray on a table close to the bed. 

"Good on ya hun! You've always been a good worker, it were only a matter of time til he noticed! He's probably jus' gone to relieve himself, no doubt. Let him know 'is breakfast is 'ere when he comes back, yeah?"

She turned to leave the room, throwing a casual glance towards the balcony as she passed. The colour drained suddenly from her face and she let out a gasp of shock, running toward the open archway.

"DICKIE!" she screamed "DICKIE COME QUICK!"

Vince leapt out of bed and rushed to her where she crouched on the balcony, the Impresario's limp hand clutched in her own. 

"Oh Dickie, 'e's ice cold! I can't-- I can't find a pulse! Oh fuck Dickie, I think 'e's dead!"

Vince clapped a hand dramatically over his mouth.

"But-- but he was fine last night! We had _such_ a lovely evenin', we even fell asleep together! What-- what do you think happened?"

Antoinette touched the Impresario's chin, fingers coming away coated in a thin layer of vomit.

"Was 'e drunk last night? Pfff, o' course 'e was. Looks like 'e choked on 'is own sick at some point."

She smiled reassuringly at Vince, who was trying hard to maintain an appearance of troubled confusion.

"There weren't nothing you could 'av done, luv. We better-- we better get outta 'ere, and let the rest of the girls know." 

\--------------------

An hour later, Vince was back in his den, hurriedly shoving clothes and makeup into a bag. He had scrubbed last night's makeup from his face and his hair had been haphazardly dyed black, some streaks of blond still peeking through. He was dressed in a worn pair of jeans and slightly ripped shirt (his 'escape clothes', which he had hidden years ago). Running on autopilot, the only thought in his head being a constantly repeating mantra; " _get out get out get out get out--"_

Sharp taps on the service door roused him and he nervously edged towards it. He didn't want to answer, until a muffled voice called his name.

"Vince... Vince, it's Howard. Please say you're there."

Vince quickly unlatched the door and pulled Howard inside, slamming the door behind him. He rounded on Howard and grasped the front of his wooly jumper.

"'Oward! You-- he's dead 'Oward! We're murderers! Wot the hell did you do?"

Howard took a moment to answer. He affectionately stroked Vince's still damp hair and smiled.

"It's called aconitine-- better known as wolfsbane." he began. 

"I met a gentleman a couple of years ago; he worked as a contract killer before the floods. For the more upper class folk-- rich and powerful types, mostly. He was a master of undetectable murders. He messed up a deal for some scumbags, and needed somewhere to hide out. So I took him in for a couple of weeks. He gave me a vial of wolfsbane as thanks, telling me that it would make any death look like an accident. It doesn't even show up in an autopsy. I never thought I'd have to use it. But you said the only way out of this was his death or-- or yours. So..."

Vince was quiet for a long moment, before reaching up to kiss Howard softly on the lips.

"You-- you've saved my life 'Oward. You never gave up. You came back for me. I don't know 'ow I can ever repay you."

Howard returned the kiss, pulling him close to his body.

"You are the only thing I could ever possibly want, my love. I'm never going to let you go again." 

\--------------------

**One year later...**

Vince leaned over the wall of the eighth floor of the abandoned carpark, in which Howard's bunker was built. He watched the floodwater lap against the chimney stacks of the city and sighed happily.

... Not just Howard's bunker anymore. _Their_ bunker.

The doors that led onto the floor were covered in a plethora of locks that were impossible to penetrate from the outside. The 'bunker' itself resembled a cabin, very like the one they had camped in all those years ago. Howard had collected sacks of soil and set up a makeshift vegetable garden close to the cabin, allowing a certain level of self sufficiency. 

Finally kicking his drug habit had been hell. But this time, Vince didn't have to do it alone. There was no one goading him into falling off the wagon. Just a tall, handsome Northener to grasp his hand and mop his brow as he dried himself out. To hold him tight at night, as he alternated between burning and freezing, unable to stop himself from thrashing about.

It had been awful. 

But Vince couldn't remember the last time he had felt so safe.

An arm suddenly wrapped around his waist. Howard pressed a kiss to the top of his head and Vince couldn't help the grin that spread across his face.

London was in tatters. He still sometimes worried that someone would figure out what he and Howard had done. 

It wasn't perfect. 

But standing there, wrapped in Howard's warm embrace, Vince felt closer to perfection than he ever had in his life.

**Author's Note:**

> **LINK TO THE ORIGINAL INSPIRATION: https://goo.gl/e7Mghj**
> 
> I know I massively abuse the 'enter' key and I apologise!
> 
> Please let me know what you think, and if you like the concept, be sure to give towan-white some love!  
> http://towan-white.tumblr.com


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